nobody gonna tell us to go
by hopelessromantic0707
Summary: "McNally? You with me?" Title from Hot Chelle Rae's 'Tonight, Tonight'


Title: nobody gonna tell us to go (this is our show)

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Rookie Blue doesn't belong to me.

Summary: "McNally? You with me?"

Author's Note: Post-finale fic. That pretty much covers it. As such, spoilers through the end of season 2.

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><p>They go back to his place- his real place, not that shitty excuse for a loft with zero furniture and a mattress thrown haphazardly in the place where normal people would have an honest-to-God bed. She can't lie, though. That shitty loft is rendered decidedly less shitty in her memory by virture of certain events taking place there. Namely, sleeping with Sam. Numerous times. Seriously. She's pretty sure there were some pulled muscles involved or something. Not that she's ever telling him that. Ever.<p>

"McNally? You with me?" She jumps when his hands come to rest on her shoulders, bites her lower lip in concentration, trying to piece together what his question might have been. A good minute goes by before she admits defeat with a slump of her shoulders and a 'don't hate me' smile.

"Not so much. No. Sorry." There's a shrug, innocent and quick. He laughs; he does that a lot when they're together, she's noticed. It's never at her, though. Well, ok, it is, but it's not mean. It's...nice. Like he's accepted the fact that she says stupid shit, has the attention span of a gnat and..."You were saying?"

"Asked what we should do now that we're 'normal'". His airquotes are inexplicably hilarious and she claps her hand to her mouth before she loses it completely. He clutches his chest, feigns being wounded by her amusement.

"Chinese?"

"Always with the food, you."

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><p>He ends up making them dinner ('normal people eat real food, not just take-out. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't fried, frozen, or a gummy animal- worm, bear, those stupid Norwegian fish?' 'Swedish,' she corrects him petulantly, which only proves his point.) It's actually kind of awesome and she tells him as much around a mouthful of penne and pesto. Sure, it's fairly simple, but she can barely use the stove. It's all about perspective. And there's more where this came from, she knows. This is the preview, he'll pull out the big guns when she least expects it. (Next month, in six months. She really likes the sound of that.)<p>

"So. Um. You think you could teach me how to do this?" Her hand sweeps out, gestures at the table between them.

"You need me to teach you how to go on a date? Don't worry about it, honey. You're doing just fine."

She pulls a face, cocks her head to the side. She's trying to be all open and in share-mode or whatever and he's not getting it.

"Cook, you jerk. I don't know anything about cooking. I figure, if you help with the basics, I can, you know, eat something other than frozen pizza once in a while."

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><p>Bad idea. Cooking (learning to cook) was a horribly ill-advised idea. She knows that now. Hindsight is a bitch.<p>

* * *

><p>The plastic chair underneath her groans, feels like its going to crack, as she turns toward him.<p>

"Try not to move too much," he tells her for what feels like the millionth time in the fifteen minutes they've been sitting here. "It's still bleeding."

Glancing down at her hand, turned palm up with a blood-stained washcloth held firmly against it, sort of makes her queasy. She's not the best with blood to begin with; the fact that this time its hers makes it exponentially worse.

"Hey. Hey." His voice sounds like its at the other end of a tunnel, but she can feel the hand that's not occupied come up to touch her face. "Breathe, Andy. Deep breaths, alright?" She focuses on doing what he says, fills her lungs with air, slowly, lets it out a few seconds later.

"I'm such a girl." The smile she tries is half-assed and there's this weird urge to burst into tears that's hitting her, too, and this is all just horrendous. Really and truly.

Next time she's totally opting for frozen pizza over homemade. At least then the injury potential is a papercut, not a gushing mess that, according to Sam, is going to require stitches in the double digits. Which is what she has in front of her at the moment.

"Don't worry about it. Had to happen eventually, right?" he says, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

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><p>When they finally make it back to his apartment (15 stitches and four hours later, thank you very much), she can't really see straight and she's having trouble not tripping over her feet. Interesting. The drugs the doctor gave her must've kicked in. Yep.<p>

"You have Zombieland?" He looks at her like she has three heads, so she clarifies, "It's a movie. I think. Pretty sure." Her head is fuzzy, feels like it's filled with cotton candy.

He smiles as he deposits her on the couch. (She wonders what's so funny). "Actually, you might be in luck. I remember Ollie watching something with zombies when he was here last week. Might be it. Let me check."

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><p>Next thing she knows, she's jolted awake by Tallahassee screaming at a truck of Hostess Sno Balls about why there are no Twinkies.<p>

Sam glances over at her. "You alright?"

She blinks, her eyes fighting to stay open. "So much for normal, huh?"

His laugh rumbles through her body (it takes her a second to realize she's curled into him) and he says, "Go back to sleep. We can try for normal tomorrow."


End file.
